A Million Miles Away (11 page)

“Mmm,” Peter said, his eyes still closed.

Suddenly, a man’s voice filled the speakers. “Let’s move, Petey!”

Peter clutched his gun again, turning away from Kelsey toward the man who had just entered. He left the screen for a moment, and she could only hear patches of their sentences.
Raid
, she heard.
Found something.

Peter returned to the frame, along with a stocky man slightly older than himself, with red hair.

He smiled, tense. “This is Rooster,” he said.

“Sam,” the guy said, touching his chest.

“Nice to meet you,” Kelsey said.

“Pleasure, ma’am.”

“I hate to go, but we have to,” Peter said.

In the background, Kelsey heard what she could recognize as an Islamic call to prayer.

Another soldier screamed blurry, angry words.

Peter looked at her, and she could see his eyes moving back and forth, memorizing her face. Just in case. His mouth was a thin line.

“Soon?” he said.

“Soon,” she replied.

He took a deep breath. He smiled. He held his hand up to his lips and put them to her screen, and the call ended.

Kelsey snapped the laptop shut and flipped to lie on her back, staring at the ceiling.

From the living room, she could hear someone in the support group weeping. Animal, gut-wrenching sounds that echoed the moment of knowing all over again. She knew how the woman felt, whoever she was. There was no reason to bring that sound into the world again. There was no reason to open another wound.

Now that she had conjured Michelle as she spoke to Peter, her own hurt felt smaller. Her sister was back in the room with her, stepping over her as she lay on the floor, digging through her drawers, asking to borrow a scarf.

Is this okay?
she asked silently as Michelle wove around her.

But memories don’t answer back.

As long as Peter saw Michelle, she would not have to be ripped away. As long as Kelsey could keep Michelle’s death to herself, Peter would not have to know that kind of pain.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next morning’s winter sun was shining through the red paper pasted on the windows of Lawrence High School, casting everyone in the hallways in an amber glow. Kelsey was in position with her team, waiting for a signal. When they heard the bloodthirsty cries coming from the gymnasium lobby, they started to run. Kelsey filled her lungs with air and expelled it to make the loudest scream she could muster. Her girls did the same. Through the halls, they formed a stampede, belting out the Lions battle cry, dodging bodies and bookshelves.

Soon, they were joined by the cheerleaders and the basketball team, everyone calling the school to war with Topeka High. The posters read
GET FIRED UP!
and
MAUL THE TROJANS!
and
LION VICTORY!
Kelsey zipped past kids who wouldn’t even go to the game—the smokers, the gamers, the drama kids—and they all joined in, yelling just for the hell of it. Soon, the whole school was a cacophony, friends and enemies forgotten, mouths wide open and wild, fists banging on lockers and classroom doors.

As tradition mandated, after exactly one minute, the noise stopped.

This was the drill on game day. Faces returned to normal, except for the occasional sly look. Homework was extracted and shuffled. It was time to go to first period.

The Lions Dance Team had made it to the southeast side of the cafeteria, to the other end of the school, panting.

“Good one, dudes,” Kelsey told her team, placing loose strands of her hair back into her ponytail as they walked to class.

Ingrid was the color of an eggplant, as usual. She looked worried. “I think I made that kid Frankie pee his pants.”

Kelsey and Gillian laughed. “How did you manage that?” Kelsey asked.

“I banged open the door to the boys’ bathroom just as he was unbuttoning.”

Kelsey closed her eyes and folded her hands with faux wisdom. “A small price to pay in the spirit of victory.”

“Poor Frankie,” Gillian said. “And poor anyone who has to sit next to him.”

Ingrid peeled off to go to Comp Lit. “No one tell him it was me,” she called.

As she left, Gillian tucked another loose strand of Kelsey’s ponytail behind her ear. “You seem good today.”

“I feel good,” Kelsey said, putting her arm around her friend.

“What’s different?” Gillian asked. “Because I’ve been trying to cheer you up for three freaking months now, and I’d kind of like to know.”

They paused in front of Gillian’s AP Euro class. Kelsey did her best to look like she was thinking, but she knew. Last night was the first night in several weeks that she hadn’t cried herself to sleep.

“I mean, I know it doesn’t happen just like that—” Gillian snapped her fingers. “But if there’s anything I can do so that you’re like this all the time, I want to do it. You know?”

She couldn’t tell Gillian about Peter. She wished she could but she couldn’t.

“It’s probably just time,” Kelsey said, smiling. “Don’t read too much into it.”

At that, she was alone, on her way to Geography. She was late, but it didn’t matter. She took her time, basking in the red, in the quiet of the main staircase. As she sidled down the first two stairs, she felt the air on her back change, a little colder, a little clearer.

Someone must have opened a window. She turned to look.

The air came from the art wing. Kelsey had only been to this section of the school once, for Michelle’s junior art show, but she could barely remember it. On impulse, she went back up the stairs.

Four classrooms bordered the small gallery. Inside, two short pedestals holding student sculptures stood in the center: one, a hand made out of clay; the other, a ceramic vase. The walls were lined with portraits in dark pencil, and Kelsey recognized some of the students. Most of them had eraser marks streaked across their faces, noses off-center, hands twisted into too many lines. Michelle had done this assignment, too, back when she had her mermaid hair.

In the corner, Kelsey found it. Unlike the others, it was framed, with a plaque, and it was perfect. Michelle had drawn herself curled up on her side of the porch, sitting on a chair, looking out onto the yard. Sun shone on her face. Tiny hairs, lines that could almost be mistaken for stray pencil, lifted in a light breeze.

A loud creak sounded from across the gallery, and Kelsey jumped.

A teacher, her head full of gray curls, was opening another window.

“Sorry!” she called. “The smell of paint leaks out of Mr. Henry’s room and it gives me a headache.”

A door labeled
MRS. WALLACE
was propped open, revealing an empty classroom.

The name was familiar. Mrs. Wallace had been Michelle’s AP Art History teacher.
Can’t go to the game
, Kelsey could remember her saying.
Have a paper for Wallace.

“Mrs. Wallace?” Kelsey asked, tearing her eyes from Michelle’s portrait.

Mrs. Wallace paused. “Yes.” Then she squinted, and walked closer. “Miss Maxfield,” she said, a smile of recognition growing on her face.

“The other one,” Kelsey said.

“I know,” Mrs. Wallace said, glancing down. “I was at Michelle’s service.”

They were both quiet for a moment, side by side, and their gazes fell on Michelle’s drawing.

“How is your family?” Mrs. Wallace asked.

“They’re all right.”

“Really?”

Silence. Visions of her father, leaking tears as he did the dishes. Her mother in her corner, listening to
Carmen
, the opera, on repeat.

“We’ve all lost it,” Kelsey let out. She looked at Mrs. Wallace and shrugged. “To be honest.”

Mrs. Wallace put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t blame you.”

Mrs. Wallace hadn’t told her to get to class and Kelsey didn’t want to leave just yet. “Did you know my sister pretty well?”

“She was one of my favorite students. A wonderful girl. A little manic, at times, but brilliant. She knew who she wanted to be.”

“Yes!” Kelsey paused, thinking. “And for me, well—” she continued. “It’s like, I had my opposite my whole life.” Kelsey gestured at the portrait. “So I knew exactly who I was. I knew who I was because I knew who I wasn’t. And now she’s gone.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Mrs. Wallace said. “But I will say, Kelsey, that as for who you are, you’ve got a whole, long life to figure that out.”

That’s what Davis had said, too. And Gillian. And everyone else. But the truth was, in some very messed-up way, speaking for Michelle, if only for a few minutes, had made her feel less hollow. The only time she felt like moving forward was last night, with Peter, who needed Michelle as much as she did.
Yes
, she wanted to tell them,
I have plenty of time, but Michelle’s time has already run out.

And that wasn’t fair.

Mrs. Wallace looked at her watch. “I better start preparing for next period.”

“I want to take your class,” Kelsey said suddenly.

Mrs. Wallace’s forehead wrinkled. “Which class?”

She couldn’t have Michelle, but she could still get to know her better. She could do what she never bothered to do when Michelle was alive. She could find out what made her tick. “Your Art History class.”

“That’s an Advanced Placement class,” Mrs. Wallace said, then gave a pitying laugh. “You missed the first half! We’re already on French Impressionism. I don’t think you’ll be able to catch up, Kelsey. This is for students serious about art history. It won’t be fun for you.”

“Please.” She found her eyes.

Mrs. Wallace sighed, shaking her head. “You’d have to switch your schedule around.…”

“Let me try. I can do it. Really, I would like to know more about…” Michelle’s portrait next to her, in the corner of her eye, hair lifting. The soup can. Ian’s directions. The print on the wall. “Warhol. Will we study Andy Warhol, for example?”

“Mmm.” Mrs. Wallace narrowed her eyes, thinking. The teacher turned and walked away toward her classroom. Kelsey’s heart sank.

Then Mrs. Wallace called behind her, sighing. “All right. Sort it out with the counselors.”

“I will!” Kelsey called back, and fought the urge to do a little dance.

“Okay, then,” Mrs. Wallace said as she closed the door. “I’ll see you at sixth period.”

POSTMARK 1/6, RECEIVED 1/13

Dear M— Forgot to send you this postcard from the Brussels Airport, so I’m sending it now. I was about to write something else but a huge rat just scurried through the computer room and scared the shit out of me. And I’m wearing flip-flops. My dad always told me flip-flops were the worst kind of shoes because they leave you unprepared. I always told him to screw off and wondered what on earth I would need to be prepared for but now I have rat residue on my foot. You live and you learn. I’m changing into my boots, though their more accurate name is portable ovens. Oh well. Give yourself an awkward sweaty hug for me. —P

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Berthe Morisot.”

Anyone who happened to be passing through the alley behind the Maxfields’ backyard would hear an extended list of notable French Impressionists floating through the night in Kelsey’s scratchy voice, a little scratchier than usual. Maybe she was coming down with something.

“Auguste Renoir.” Kelsey was pacing on her side of the porch, puffy coat unzipped, earbuds blasting. She sniffed. She was definitely coming down with something.

“Mary Cassatt,” she called into the darkness.

Mrs. Wallace, as Kelsey had found out over the past couple of weeks, was a pop quiz sorceress. She had a sixth sense for when her class was most comfortable, and at the precise peak of relaxation, BAM! Quizzes up her sleeve.

“Claude Monet.”

She had recorded herself stating dates and names of paintings, and put them on her phone. She would match the artist to their facts out loud, because staring at a book would find her using it as a pillow. She needed her body involved somehow. She was walking to stay awake.

“Edgar Degas.”

“Kelsey?”

She turned to see her deck door slide open, her father’s scraggly, hulking frame dominating the light. She took out her earbuds.

“Hi, Dad.”

A smile peeked through his beard. “Whatcha doin’ out here?”

“Studying.”

“Pardon me, what word just came out of your mouth?”

Kelsey let out a laugh, and said it slower this time. “Stud-y-ing.”

He backed into her room. “You have a clown nose. Come in from the cold for a minute.”

She followed her dad inside, and he folded his big body slowly to sit in her desk chair, wearing the same old Cambodian cotton white button-up, stained slightly with burger grease. As he looked around with a gruff eye, she kicked some dirty clothes into the closet. For a minute, it was like it used to be.